


Beyond the call

by demon_faith



Category: James Bond (Movies), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demon_faith/pseuds/demon_faith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond faces his toughest mission yet – the seduction of Ianto Jones</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the call

**Author's Note:**

> So, kirke_novak rings me up and we wibble for an hour. And Kirke says she has a craving for James Bond to, somewhat reluctantly, seduce a man. This is what turned up in my head.

"Bond. Sit down."

There was a small dent in the centre of her forehead that indicated a frown and Bond found himself searching his recent past for particularly stupid mistakes.

"M" He sat in front of her desk, watching her face carefully. Her mouth was settled in a grave line and her eyes were carefully blank – this was not normal behaviour.

"Bond, I have a mission for you. And…if you believe that it is…beyond the call of duty, I will understand if you refuse."

She had never given him a choice before, not like this. It must be a serious mission, the assassination of a national leader, perhaps, or a threat to the Queen. What would make her think that he'd refuse?

"Bond?"

"Please, continue."

She resettled her hands on the desk and met his eyes coolly.

"At this very moment, MI5 are meeting with a representative of the Torchwood Institution to gather information about their current activity as it relates to national security and…our enemies abroad. They have…informed me that this information is strictly need-to-know and will be handled by MI5 exclusively."

With difficulty, he reined in his temper. "International threats-"

"Are our territory. I am aware of that, Bond. This is a vulgar gesture by an equally vulgar man – let us hope he does not have time to become comfortable in that office."

A new head of MI5 was always eager to flex his muscles, particularly against MI6, but playing games with the nation's security was completely unacceptable.

"So, I am to meet with this representative and request the intelligence from him?"

M looked uneasy. "I'm afraid it won't be that simple. The Prime Minister has declared that only MI5 will be liaising with Torchwood – they are technically outside the government, you know."

His lip curled in anger. "The Prime Minister is-"

"A moron, yes, yes. But we do not have time to quibble. Your mission is to extract the information from the operative without use of force and without revealing your identity." Her eyes softened. "That leaves you very few options."

It took a moment to realise the implications, the reason for her sobriety and the unexpected ability to refuse. He placed his hands flat on the table, digging his nails into the wood.

"What exactly are you asking, M?"

"I understand this is not the…typical outlet for your skills, Bond, but…this is what your country needs of you."

"M, please, just…say it."

He needed to be absolutely sure of what she was asking. He had to know so he could tell her to go to Hell.

"James, I need you to seduce this man."

Flying to his feet, he prepared to shout, to rave, but the look on her face stopped him. She was expecting him to say no. She was already planning to…give this mission to another agent.

If he refused, someone else would be in this position.

He had never refused a mission. He had never refused his duty to Queen and country.

His…duty to seduce.

"I accept," he said, his mouth drying as he spoke. M nodded and passed a folder across the desk.

"Good luck, Bond. Godspeed."

As he left the office, he realised the folder was shaking in his hand. He brought himself under control and took his hat from Moneypenny with the barest nod. He was going to bed a man for international secrets. A man as accustomed to secrecy as himself, a man unwilling to part with such secrets at the cost of his life.

If he could find his way to the man's hotel room, that might be enough. Any computer can be hacked, any notes copied – he may not have to…pursue him at all.

His feet had carried him to the Q Branch and he hesitated outside the door. Did this mission require a technical briefing? His stomach balked at what Q might produce for this mission and he was tempted to turn around, march back to M's office and tell her that it was off, no deal, he couldn't go through with it.

But he was a Double-Oh Agent and he could not back out of an assignment. This was simply…a new challenge.

"Come in, Bond. I've been expecting you."

Q was standing in the doorway and Bond nodded once, letting himself be led to a secluded corner of the lab.

"Now, Double-Oh-Seven, I'm not sure I have much in the way of…equipment for this mission."

It was strange how Bond couldn't quite meet Q's eyes but he nodded anyway, pretending to be interested in the array of knives on the display table.

"Here." Q shoved a small bag into Bond's hands with an embarrassed smile. "A few of the essentials." A pause, then a clap to the shoulder. "Good luck."

Bond nodded and started to leave, clutching the bag like a lifeline. What on earth was he doing? He couldn't do this, he would-

"Oh, and Bond?"

He turned and caught the keys in his free hand. Q smiled.

"Take the car."

~

He booked a room at the Hilton London Euston, the same hotel as his target. M's information said the man was staying another two nights. He had worked at Torchwood One before the Canary Wharf incident, and was now placed at Torchwood Three. All other information was highly classified but the _impression_ from the lower ranks was that his advances would not be unwelcome.

That did nothing to comfort him. Or quell his anger

The Aston was safely in the hotel garage – he wouldn't need it for tonight's plan. If he had a plan. He'd checked in without concealment, because no one cared about his name here, and taken a few moments to prepare his hotel room as a bored businessman's retreat (he would not think about the reasons why). Donning some artfully creased trousers and an open collar shirt, he headed for the bar, leather jacket slung across his shoulder.

He'd studied photos of the target and casually looked about as he made his way to the bar. As luck would have it, the man was sitting on a bar stool in his line of sight, a bottle of Glenfiddich by his elbow. And this only ten o'clock.

"Magners – glass, no ice." He didn't want to scare him off straight away and the blearily interested look he received told him he was right. "May I join you?"

The man shrugged, expensive suit jacket sliding off his shoulder. He tried to force it back up and keep his balance, but was only partly successful, wobbling dangerously on the stool. Bond slid beside him, steadying his body against his own. _Just like Paris, like Christmas. This is exactly the same._

"Thanks," the man said awkwardly, then straightened himself, apparently sobering. "Ianto Jones." He held out a hand.

He shook it warmly. "Bond, James Bond." He let his hand linger a moment in the other man's, before Jones pulled away, a shy smile touching his lips.

If he thought about it, he could say that Jones was quite handsome. His dark brown hair was styled carefully and the circles under his eyes didn't detract from the smoothness of his cheeks or the curve of his lips. Yes, he was a handsome man and perhaps that would help. If he could get past the fact that he was indeed a man.

Bond perched on the stool next to him, drawing it an inch or two closer and sipping at his cider. The jacket had been casually dumped on the bar but he could see Jones studying the leather.

"S'nice," he said, fingers playing at the sleeve.

"Imported," he said dismissively. "So, business or pleasure?"

"Business," Jones said and his eyes clouded. "You?"

"Oh, escaping the business for a couple of days. Sometimes I just need to get away from it all." He made a leap. "Especially the boss."

Jones' face twisted and he drained his glass, reaching for the bottle. "Yeah."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Jones started to stand. Bond realised he was losing him and stood up, seemingly on the pretence of steadying Jones' shoulder.

"M'fine, fine," he muttered under his breath, but Bond held him close anyway, studying the feel of him under his hands. Not like a woman then, but stronger, more of an equal than a delicate prize. The thought of what he had to do was making him ill, but he bit back the bile – he needed to focus.

"Just…getting some air," he said, but his eyes said something different, as if this was a dare of some kind.

"I'll come with you," he said and Jones nodded, that smile returning to his face. Bond realised he was probably missing something here but let it pass, holding the younger man upright as they struggled out onto the street.

Jones gulped at the air, as if drowning, and Bond held him upright, stealing his warmth in the chill night air. He'd left his jacket on the bar but now was not the time to leave, as Jones turned to him and smiled.

Maybe he could do this after all.

Wait, what was he thinking? This was absurd – he bedded _women_ for the mission, not…this. He was angry at M, angry at this whole stupid mission, and angry at Jones for being a damn man in the first place. A man who was still smiling at him.

"Perhaps…you'd join me for coffee?" he heard his voice saying the words, and Jones' eyes seemed to sparkle, his face losing the clouding from earlier.

"Coffee…in your room?" He licked his lips and Bond felt a stirring in his groin. This couldn't be happening. He was not attracted to men, he was not interested, this was a mission – but he had to play the part, so this was good. He was just getting into character. Just like any other mission.

"My room," he said, laying on his best smile. Jones grinned back and stumbled with him to the lift, hand resting in the small of his back. His flushed face was pressed into Bond's neck for a moment before the lift doors opened and a smart couple walked by them, ignoring them completely.

Bond dragged Jones into the lift and pressed the button for his floor. He needed to get the man out of the public eye and…get on with the mission.

But Jones had other ideas. Coyly, he pressed the stop button and brought the lift to a smooth halt. "What's the hurry?"

Suddenly, Jones had him pressed against the lift wall and was kissing him. He tasted of fine whiskey and better coffee, his tongue agile and quick and his hard body pushing Bond flat against the wall. This was nothing like being kissed by a woman.

Hands fumbled on his belt and he realised they were moving quicker than he'd planned – had he planned for this? Then, his trousers were round his ankles and Ianto Jones was kneeling in front of him.

"Ready, James?" he said and then took his cock in his mouth. Bond cried out, hands clutching at the rail on the lift wall and struggling not to buck his hips into the perfect wetness.

Because Ianto clearly knew what he was doing. He'd known women who were experienced, perfect, but this was…beyond. He felt his mind unravel as Ianto worked his magic and he found his fingers twisting in Ianto's hair, nonsense words leaving his mouth as his infamous control deserted him and left him at the mercy of Ianto's tongue.

He came hard and fast, fighting to stay upright as Ianto swallowed him down, pulling away with a self-satisfied smirk. "Good coffee, James?" he said slyly.

Bond could only nod, allowing Ianto to carefully refasten his trousers. "The best," he breathed, earning him another gorgeous smile. Ianto restarted the lift and they arrived at his floor, which was thankfully empty.

He opened the room as Ianto swayed dangerously, dragging them both down to the floor. He touched Bond's nose and smiled. "You're not Jack…but I like you," he said and passed out.

Bond extricated himself from Ianto's embrace and kicked the door closed. A reprieve, for the moment. He hoisted the sleeping man over his shoulder and laid him down on the bed, removing shoes, jacket and tie. Then, he placed him in the recovery position and headed for the shower – there was no point thinking about this until morning.

~

The sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds when Ianto finally stirred. Bond was perched on the edge of the sofa bed, where he'd spent the night like a gentleman. He hoped the cream trousers and sky blue shirt gave an air of casual indifference to the world and would allow Ianto to trust him. He hoped.

Ianto sat up suddenly, looking about him wildly. Bond waved from the sofa.

"Sleep well?"

Scrubbing at his unshaven cheeks, Ianto smiled sheepishly. "Uh, yes, I did. Thank you." He paused to consider for a moment. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Not at all," he said, grinning, knowing that the next logical step would be to ask Bond to fetch clothes from his hotel room. He could find the information and leave – mission complete.

"Better, uh, ring for my clothes first," he said, and picked up the phone. Bond hid his disappointment with a smile, handing Ianto one of the coffees he'd had sent up for them. Ianto took it with a grin and sipped it like a connoisseur.

He set down the steaming mug and drifted towards the bathroom, pausing in the doorway. "Thank you for…taking care of me, last night. I appreciate it."

"I thought it was you who was 'taking care' of me."

Ianto grinned again and ducked into the bathroom. Bond smiled despite himself – this wasn't as difficult as he'd anticipated. He had the lines and the moves, he had his control back-

"Join me?"

Steam curled round the naked man in the doorway and Bond found his eyes trailing Ianto's body, taking in the view.

He started to undo his shirt. Ianto pulled him forward into the bathroom and divested him of his clothes, kisses trailing his neck, his jaw, before guiding him into the shower.

The water was the perfect temperature and being pressed against the shower wall brought the previous night flooding back: the drinks, the lift, Ianto's mouth on his cock…

And then Ianto wasn't kissing him.

"What's wrong?" he said, annoyed at the quaver in his voice.

Ianto laid his hands flat on Bond's chest and wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I have…someone. In Cardiff. We're…well, it's complicated. I…I thought I should tell you."

Now, this was familiar territory. Bond flicked Ianto's hair out of his eyes and placed a kiss at the corner of his mouth. "Whatever you want from me is free. I'm not…interested in attachment."

Ianto smiled again but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He did, however, start kissing him again, taking both his hands and bringing them to his arse.

He was cock to cock with Ianto now, and he realised that maybe he was meant to reciprocate for last night. That was good sexual etiquette, after all, and he had always left his lovers satisfied. But this was-

It was one thing to accept a blow job from someone, someone who happened to be a man and also very good at blow jobs. It was another to give one, because that would mean he would have to accept he was seducing a man.

A man who was kissing him desperately in the shower, whose cock was hardening against his own and who showed no signs of letting go.

Bond broke the kiss with the smile, placing a finger to Ianto's swollen lips.

"Later. I have plans for today."

He stepped out of the shower before Ianto could protest, casually flicking a towel over his shoulder and walking slowly away.

When the door was safely closed behind him, he sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. What was he doing? He couldn't just rewire himself for the weekend, pretend he had a sudden attraction to men and just "go through the motions".

He was an intelligence agent, a lover of fine things and fine women. He was not a lover of men, not even men as attractive as Ianto Jones. What was he going to do?

His clothes were strewn across the bathroom floor and Ianto was still in the shower. He pulled out a pair of dark jeans and a long fleece top, eyeing the greying sky. Now he had to formulate these "plans" to allay Ianto's suspicions; he hoped he would be regarded as a tease and not the coward he was.

"James?"

Ianto emerged with a towel around his waist, and Bond realised this mission was far from over. "Your-"

The knock at the door interrupted him and he opened it, offering the porter a smile.

"Case for Mr Jones," he said, face carefully neutral, and Bond took it with a nod, palming off a ten pound note. He lifted the case onto the bed and flicked it open, taking charge.

"Oh, Ianto, what do we have here?" He pulled out a deep purple shirt, holding it up to Ianto's chest and passing a critical eye. "Hmm…too formal."

Ianto smiled, as Bond continued to raid his case, looking for the document that must be there. "Hmm…too casual…too winter…too pink..."

That earned him a laugh and Ianto pulled a grey rollneck jumper from his hands, manoeuvring around him to get dressed. Bond cast another eye over the case – where was the file? He'd need time to go through the whole thing properly, but how could he distract him?

It would be so much easier to knock him out and finish the mission, but MI6 needed Torchwood and, besides, he wasn't in the habit of cold-cocking his allies.

"Does this meet with your approval?"

Bond turned and surveyed the man. The jeans were snug and the jumper softened him into someone with a home and a family. Bond tried not to think about that side of him – this was business, not marriage.

"I don't know, Mr Jones – I think I preferred you out of it."

Ianto pulled a face, but the blush rose on his cheeks and Bond was pleased with himself. He was firmly in control of the situation again and working from a position of strength was good attack policy.

"So, what are these 'big plans'?"

Bond flashed him a trademark grin and flung open the door. "After you, please."

~  
Bond was physically incapable of taking the Tube, so they hailed a taxi to Trafalgar Square. He'd save the car for later.

They stayed in the National Gallery for all of ten minutes before Bond realised he'd misjudged and Ianto was already flagging. He dragged him out into the murk and found a secluded alleyway to push him up against the wall. _Kissing is easy. Kissing I can do._

When they emerged, Ianto was looking more alive and he hailed another taxi. The London Eye was a cheesy monstrosity but it served his purpose, and he got Ianto alone in a private capsule with champagne.

"To…escaping the boss." And Ianto blushed, clinking his glass before looking away.

Bond wasn't sure he wanted to turn the head of Torchwood Three into an enemy but there was no reason why this little affair couldn't be kept secret. After all, Ianto had no idea who he was and it was unlikely he would meet the boss under professional circumstances. Still, he knew not to mix business with pleasure, unless his business was pleasure, as it so often was.

When he lifted a champagne truffle to Ianto's lips, he was only half expecting him to bite. But he did, sucking the whole chocolate into his mouth and flicking his tongue over the tips of Bond's fingers. It reminded him of the lift and he was suddenly uncomfortable, wondering why he got rid of the host at the ground station.

It turned out, however, that Ianto wasn't an exhibitionist and only shot him looks across the seat. Bond indulged him with a leisurely kiss, but clearly this was not the time for new advances in the field of sexual expression. Bond guiltily considered this a reprieve.

"Do you live in London?"

He was about to extol the virtues of anonymous liaisons, when he realised that taking the man out for the day pretty much put pay to that.

"Sometimes. My work involves a lot of travelling."

Ianto nodded but didn't question further; he couldn't give up his work either and Bond wouldn't push for lies. When the capsule finally hit earth, Bond drew his hand suggestively over Ianto's arse as they leave. He needed to keep his interest, even if he wasn't entirely sure where this was going.

He'd had time to plan now and he hailed another taxi, thinking of a place where he was guaranteed service and could discretely pass the bill onto M.

"Le Pont de la Tour, Mr. Jones. Does it meet your approval?"

Ianto flashed him a smile, and Bond saw everything – this was not a man used to being wined and dined. Perhaps taken for granted, a bit of fun but only the bare bones of relationship; Ianto wanted to be treated and indulged, and Bond could certainly provide that. He'd entertained enough bored trophy wives to know this routine and he was back in his stride. He'd figure out the technicalities later.

"Table for two, the M account. Somewhere…secluded."

"Right away, sir," the waiter stammered, leading him to a private room. Ianto tried not to stare and Bond pretended not to notice – the look on his face was reward enough.

"James, this is-"

Bond pulled out a chair and gestured for Ianto to sit. "James, don't-"

"Now, if you're not a good boy, you won't get dessert." His best wolfish grin showed him exactly what dessert could be. Ianto sat.

Nobody could say James Bond wasn't adaptable.

~

When they emerged from the theatre, Ianto was laughing and holding his arm. Bond smiled and waved for a taxi. He'd watched Ianto's face throughout the performance, the flashes of excitement and the permanent look of wonder in his eyes. It had been a long time since he'd found a lover he could thrill like this.

Bond's mind ground to a halt. Lover? Where had that come from? This was a business arrangement, a mission to complete – he was not wooing anyone. Ianto's pleasure was only a means to an end; by the end of the evening, he'd have the information he needed and he could forget this whole distasteful affair had ever occurred.

Ianto stood closer to him, and Bond instinctively slid an arm around his waist. It was cold, after all.

"The portico dates back to 1820! Did you see the chandeliers? I'm not sure if they're entirely original, but 1922 at least. The oldest theatre in the whole West End."

Bond had taken a risk on the theatre, but Ianto clearly had an affection for the old building at least.

"Thank you." The hot whisper in his ear surprised him, and he turned to face Ianto, bumping noses with him and laughing, hoping he sounded cultured and experienced and not absolutely terrified.

What was going on here? Was this his fault for turning what should've been a one night stand into a protracted weekend of…dating? But he still didn't have his information, so this was just an extension of the mission. The briefing intel was key – the rest of this was just an incredibly impressive act. So impressive, in fact, that he was even fooling himself.

They stepped into a taxi and Ianto reached across the seat, resting his hand on Bond's. He cleared his throat.

"Savile Row, please. Quickly now." Bond slipped a note to the driver, who nodded smartly and drove away at a reasonable speed.

Bond met Ianto's eyes with affected contrition. "I'm afraid we don't have time for bespoke tailoring, so I hope you'll forgive a hire garment."

Ianto raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure I'll cope." He lowered his voice. "You're planning something, aren't you?"

Bond grinned. "Me? Whatever gave you that idea?"

Slowly, he allowed his fingers to wander, tracing the seams of Ianto's jeans. He shivered under the touch, so Bond did it again, planting a small kiss to the edge of his jaw.

"Later," he said, his voice heavy with promise. Ianto barely managed to nod.

The taxi came to a halt and Bond furnished the driver with another note. Stepping out onto the street, he escorted Ianto quickly through the crowds. His man was waiting at the door and nodded to them, as he shut the door behind them.

"Mr. Bond, good day. And this must be Mr. Jones – a pleasure, sir."

He shook Ianto's hand and Ianto clasped it warmly. "Sir, the pleasure's mine. My father talks of you often."

Bond felt his control slipping. Ianto's father? What did he have to do with this business? Was it possible that he knew about the subtle modifications he'd asked for over the years, the bloodstains that had been purged from his finest suits? However, M paid for the man's discretion – he just had to hope it had held out.

The tailor looked bemused for a second before bursting into a smile. "Jones of Cardiff? Oh, your father was a master craftsman – such an eye! The tailoring business lost a good man when he retired."

Ianto nodded graciously and Bond quietly released the breath he'd been holding. A professional appreciation, nothing more. Though he was incredibly glad he'd brought Ianto to the best: a tailor's son would not be fobbed off with any old commercial rubbish.

"Now, Mr. Jones, I understand you require black tie for this evening. Allow me to take your measurements."

Bond looked away politely, but felt Ianto's eyes burning into the back of his head, challenging him to look, to undress him with his eyes. Eventually, Bond succumbed, and allowed Ianto's eyes to smoulder. He nervously adjusted his watch and then wandered casually away, determined to keep his cool.

What was wrong with him? He'd been jittery since the theatre, out of sorts. Maybe he was coming down with something. This mission was certainly taking a lot out of him.

A hand settled on his shoulder. "James? Are you all right?"

He nodded dismissively, turning into Ianto's body. "Yes, fine, fine." He settled his hand on Ianto's hip, accepting the blush and smile the action produced. It was so easy to give to Ianto; his response to the slightest touch was a compliment, a non-verbal 'thank you' for the attention. His "man in Cardiff" had no idea what he was letting slip away.

"I think I have something that will meet your requirements, Mr. Jones."

The dinner jacket was elegant, a single-breasted cut that would flatter Ianto's trim waist. Ianto felt the material and nodded his approval.

"And will that be with a waistcoat or a cummerbund?"

"Waistcoat, please."

He wasn't surprised that Ianto favoured the three-piece suit, and said as much to his tailor as Ianto tried it on.

"A man of high taste always favours the waistcoat, Mr. Bond."

Bond took it for the polite criticism it was and shrugged gamely. The tailor glanced at the cubicle and leaned forward.

"And your own dinner jacket is ready for collection."

The new commission had slipped his mind completely. He smiled and took the garment bag, wondering if this was really the appropriate occasion to wear a tuxedo laced with trinitrotoluene. However, it would have to do, and one never knew when one might need a good explosion.

"I trust it fits then, Mr. Jones?"

"Like a glove."

Ianto carried the garment bag naturally and Bond was reminded that the man was an agent like himself. Perhaps his work also involved high profile parties, but his insecurity spoke otherwise.

"That will be the M account then. Thank you, and good day."

"A pleasure, sirs. A good day to you!"

They stepped into the fading winter sun, the first signs of snowfall marking the pavement. Bond hailed another taxi and they headed back to the hotel; Bond reached for Ianto's hand and received a guarded smile. Had he spoken out of turn in the tailor's? He ran over the conversation in his mind but nothing jumped out.

"Ianto?"

"Just thinking," came the reply, slightly too fast to be entirely genuine. He would press him about it later, but they were in danger of being late for dinner and that would never do.

_It's all in the timing._

No, he wasn't avoiding the issues at all.

~

"What do you think?"

The compliment was already on his tongue as he turned, but he hesitated, drinking in the sight. He'd been right about the cut – it was flattering, elegant, perfect. The man was made for a dinner jacket, made for such style, and what could he possibly say to acknowledge the perfect marriage of clothes and man?

"Beautiful."

That pretty blush played across his cheeks, and Bond held out an arm dramatically, leading him to the lift. This was the start of his final plan, the culmination of all his work. He hoped it would be worth it.

Ianto appreciated the car with his fingers, gliding his hands along the sleek lines of the door, the bonnet. Bond opened the passenger door for him like a gentleman, and then settled into the driver's seat.

His pace was sedate that evening – they had all the time in the world. The valet at the Ritz took the car away and then it was on to the restaurant and whatever Ianto could possibly desire.

He found himself, for once, not entirely at ease. His eye was continually caught up with Ianto, his ear straining to hear every note of his speech and he hardly paid attention to the flavour of his food, so obsessed with his guest were his senses.

The craps table held no luck for him and he could not hold a hand at poker. Something was definitely wrong and yet he could not trace it. Ianto, however, seemed to enjoy himself immensely, lurking at Bond's side and whispering in his ear. It was entirely too intimate for so public a place but he couldn't really bring himself to care.

They left unfashionably early and Bond realised that this was it, this was the moment. He was about to embark on the crucial point of the mission – and he prayed he could go through with it, and not disgrace himself like a coward.

However, Ianto paused on the steps of the hotel, taking his arm and drawing him close.

"James, I…enjoyed tonight."

"Good, I'm glad. Tomorrow-"

"Let me repay you."

Slowly, he leaned in for a devastatingly sweet kiss. Bond forgot where he was, who he was, and held onto Ianto like a drowning man, accepting the gift from the lips of this man. This man who-

A gunshot tore through the night and Ianto jerked in his arms. He threw them both to the ground, blood blooming over Ianto's expensive suit jacket. _That will never come out,_ he thought, his mind reeling, and he drew his gun from the ankle holster, determined to exact revenge.

More gunshots, and a shadow fell across the road. A man stepped out from behind a pillar and Bond whirled to face him, but he was already holding up his hands.

"Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood. And who the-"

The man stopped, faltered and fell to his knees beside them.

"Ianto..."

Bond did a quick check – breathing, yes; conscious, no. "Let's get him inside," he said, hauling Ianto upright and letting Harkness take his other arm.

This had the makings of a long night.

~

Their stumble through reception went largely unnoticed, but the desk clerk gave them a sympathetic smile. Bond hoped that Ianto wouldn't mind the taint to his reputation, but at the moment, he had more pressing matters on his mind.

The lift doors opened as they approached and a well-dressed woman gave them a disdainful look. With care, they bundled Ianto into the lift and, as the doors closed, Bond placed a gentle hand on his cheek.

"Ianto? Can you hear me?"

"James...?"

The breathed word warmed him and he sighed. "Ianto, you've been shot. We're taking you back to the room, but I want you to stay calm. Can you do that?"

"Of course he can," Harkness said tersely, the wobble in his voice betraying his fear.

Ianto tensed in his arms, but didn't look away from Bond. "Jack."

Harkness made no move to draw him closer, and it seemed it would take more than a gunshot to heal their rift. Bond felt perversely pleased about this, which made no sense at all; despite himself, he had enjoyed their day together, but Ianto needed someone to come home to. Bond was excluded from this category on the basis of being solely interested for the sake of duty, and straight. Mostly.

The lift finally reached his floor and he guided their trio towards his room. Hurriedly unlocking the door, he helped lay Ianto on the bed. Harkness moved away, feigning disinterest, but Bond could see the furtive glances he sent Ianto's way.

"Ianto, I need to take off your jacket. It's going to hurt, but I have to do it."

"Yes..." he mumbled. "Trust you."

Bond ignored the sickening wrench in his stomach; a traitorous voice told him that he didn't deserve that trust, especially as he was lying his way into the man's bed for international secrets.

He lifted Ianto clear of the bed and held him close to his chest, easing the jacket over his left shoulder. Ianto gasped and Bond realised the bullet had passed through his shoulder, taking the material of the jacket, waistcoat and shirt into the wound.

He had the kit for removing it, but to move now would reveal his identity. Ianto winced, and Bond lowered him back to the bed. Moving swiftly across the room, he pulled his first aid kit from one of the cases and brought it to Ianto's side. The kit sprung open and he plucked out the swabs, tweezers and sterilising agents, laying it out with ruthless efficiency. The wound wasn't life-threatening in itself, but the sepsis from the cloth could be lethal. He cut away the waistcoat and dress shirt, hoping Mr Davies would forgive him for ruining the suit.

"What's the damage?" Harkness said from the window, briefly turning to face them.

"Shoulder-wound, bullet in-situ. Removing the cloth now."

Bond loaded up a syringe of local and squeezed Ianto's hand. "Sharp scratch now, then blissfully numb. Sound good?"

"Great," Ianto murmured, letting his eyes fall closed. Bond reluctantly released his hand and squirted the anaesthetic into the wound, before injecting the skin around it. Ianto hissed in pain, but bit down on his lip, drawing blood. Bond shook two pills out of a bottle and pressed them to his lips.

"Morphine. For the pain."

Ianto swallowed them dry, his breathing settling and the tension leaving his face as the anaesthetic started to kick in. Bond waited a few more minutes, rubbing small circles into the palm of Ianto's hand and watching his face for signs of discomfort.

"S'gone now," Ianto whispered and Bond nodded, picking up his tweezers.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" Harkness was suddenly very close; Bond glared up at him.

"Yes. Back off."

Harkness looked affronted but turned away.

"Well, you MI6 boys sure know how to have a good time."

Bond froze for a moment but held the tweezers steady as he picked up a swab and soaked it in iodine.

"Jack, don't."

No. It couldn't be.

"Why the hell not?" Harkness was livid. "You've been shot, Ianto! How much more evidence do you need?"

Bond briefly considered this point. Who could have been shooting at them? And who was the target – Ianto? Himself? Or perhaps even Harkness? However, that was a point for later – right now, he had a man awaiting urgent medical attention, his cover in jeopardy and a screaming Captain. He wasn't sure this was what M had in mind when she recruited him.

He placed the iodine swab to the wound; Ianto didn't even blink, just regarded Harkness with hazy, bitter eyes.

"You know nothing about it," he said, voice soft and deadly.

"You told me you were safe!"

Ianto shifted his gaze to Bond, who met his eyes with difficulty. "James, did you know I was in danger?"

"No," he said, glad he could answer him honestly. Harkness muttered something behind him but he didn't matter; it was just him and Ianto in the room.

Finally, he looked away and finished cleaning the wound. Then, dropping the swabs to one side, he prepared to extract the bullet.

"You might feel a sharp tug, but-"

"It may burn a hole in my shoulder." Ianto smiled wanly. "I'm ready."

Bond nodded once and thrust the tweezers into the wound; he hit metal and carefully closed the tweezers around the bullet. It came away quickly and Ianto's sob barely broke his concentration, so quiet came the protest of pain. The three pieces of cloth were attached to the bullet's tip and he sighed.

"Got it all, Ianto," he said, swiping a final iodine swab across the wound before picking up his threaded needle. His neat stitches covered the wound in a couple of minutes and he placed the dressing delicately over his handiwork, before securing it with a bandage.

"No sudden moves now. And no…strenuous exercise."

They both smiled and Bond felt relief flood through him. Then, a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"We need to talk."

"Jack, leave it," Ianto said, annoyance creeping under his pain.

"No, Ianto," Bond said, realising he'd have to face the music sooner or later. "We can talk."

With one last squeeze of Ianto's hand, he headed out onto the balcony, wondering if MI6 had sufficiently prepared him for this particular confrontation.

~

The night had cooled and Bond stared out over the city, noting the landmarks where he had kissed Ianto and the ones yet to be conquered. If he lived that long.

Harkness didn't appear to be a particularly strong man and Bond thought he could take him in a fair fight, but Torchwood weren't renowned for playing fair.

"I've always said our Ianto doesn't know when to quit."

Something about that statement irked Bond but he checked his temper. "I think he can take care of himself."

"I think he knows when he's out of his depth." Harkness smirked. "And then he calls me."

Bond closed his eyes. How long had Ianto known? Maybe Ianto had been playing him – and didn't it feel like a betrayal?

Harkness mistook his pain for anger. "Not as gullible as you thought, huh? Clearly, you underestimated him."

"No, you underestimate him – every day." Bond's voice was deadly. "He's a better man that either of us could hope to be, and you don't deserve him."

Bond was tired and he had felt Ianto convulse in his arms; he wasn't in the mood to play games.  
Harkness stepped forward menacingly. "If you laid a hand on him-"

"You'll what? Kill me?" Harkness blinked, momentarily thrown. "Let's dispense with the pissing contest, shall we?"

"You put his life in danger."

"Oh, did I? How can you be so sure they weren't shooting at you, Captain? Not good at making friends, are we?"

"Ianto doesn't complain," Harkness said smugly; Bond snorted.

"No, he never does, does he? You treat him like a serf and he takes it, because he loves you! Despite all this, he still loves you."

Harkness visibly deflated and looked away. Bond stared at his hands, Ianto's blood drying in the creases, and fought the pit of nausea in his stomach. Had he sounded as bitter as he felt?

"What do you want?"

Bond looked up, confused. Harkness rolled his eyes. "MI6 agent seduces a Torchwood operative and there's no ulterior motive? Please."

His cover in tatters, Bond decided to come clean. "I was charged with discovering the intel you gave MI5. But-"

He hesitated and Harkness looked up, interest piqued. "He charmed you?"

"He blew me away."

For once, it wasn't a joke or a cheap innuendo; by the way Harkness nodded, he knew he understood.

"I can give you the information you need."

Bond nodded – there was nothing else to say.

__Wait-

He heard the distinctive click of a gun safety being released and froze.

"Mr Bond, come here please."

Those were the cultured tones of an educated minion. In his room. With Ianto.

"I would not think about your gun, Mr Bond. This one does not need another hole in him tonight."

Bond clenched his fists. Harkness slipped a hand inside his greatcoat.

"Tell your friend not to be foolish. I require both of you to be in my presence – immediately, if you please."

They turned together, and Bond took in the scene. The slim Asian man had Ianto by the neck, shielding himself with the struggling body, a Colt snug against Ianto's temple.

"Much better. Now, if you want your friend to live, you will follow my instructions.

"Firstly, I have no need of this man."

The gun twitched in his hand, Bond heard himself yell and then there was a neat hole in Harkness' forehead. The body hit the floor and Bond locked his eyes on Ianto. He had stopped struggling, absolutely calm in the face of his lover's death. What did Torchwood do to these people?

"Now you see that I am a man who means business."

"You didn't have to do that," he said; the man laughed.

"Perhaps not, but my trigger finger is itchy tonight. The gentleman I work for is anxious to meet you, Mr Bond. We should not keep him waiting."

"And if I refuse?"

"Your friend ends up in the river. I am not a cruel man, Mr Bond, but I have my job as you do. If you do not resist, I will leave this one here unharmed. You have my word."

Ianto didn't need immediate medical attention – he'd survive if left. Really, there wasn't a choice – Bond could endure whatever this man and his boss had in store, and Ianto's life wasn't expendable.

"I'll come with you. But...don't hurt him."

He hadn't meant to say that; the man laughed again.

"Your guns, Mr Bond. Then we can leave this sordid city."

Bond removed the Smith &amp; Wesson from his inside pocket and the Walther from his ankle holster. He could always detonate the suit if necessary.

"Very good. Lay them on the table and come here – I will not take chances with such a precious prisoner."

Bond walked slowly towards him, his eyes never leaving Ianto's. His calm gaze said _hold on - we're okay - I'm here_; it made promises Ianto couldn't keep and yet Bond believed them anyway.

Bond wondered what his eyes promised in return.

When he was within reach, the man grabbed Bond's shoulder and twisted him round. He deftly cuffed his hands behind his back, still holding the gun to Ianto's head.

"Now, Mr Bond, we are ready. And I don't think we'll be needing your little friend, will we?"

He should've known better than to trust him – he had to move – he had to make it right –

Ianto closed his eyes.

Bond jumped.

_Bang._

He was slumped against the headboard, a warm body pressed into his shoulder. Maybe he'd hit his head-

He was hallucinating.

"Ianto?"

"Jack."

And there was Harkness, tucking his gun into his coat as if he hadn't been cooling in his own blood not five minutes previously. Ianto shifted against Bond's shoulder and looked up at him, lips pursed.

"James?" he said softly and Bond nodded, easing himself up to let not-dead Harkness take care of the cuffs.

"That's a pretty good defence system you've got there," he said casually. "Care to share?"

"It costs too much," Harkness said grimly and Bond knew when to let go.

Hands free, he gently helped Ianto to sit up, checking the bandage for signs of bleeding.

"James, I'm fine. Don't fuss."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said breezily. "Just don't want you to bleed on me."

Ianto closed his eyes with a faint smile. "Right."

Bond glanced over at the body on the floor. "What are our options?"

Jack grinned, and started dragging the corpse onto the balcony. "Our methods are kinda unique."

Bond frowned but didn't question further. He turned back to Ianto, who was looking at him strangely.

"Did he-"

"I'm fine. Really. And…" he thought through his words, then closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I understand. It was an assignment. It's…it's okay."

"No, it's not. I just told your boss to treat you better, and I-"

"Treated me just fine." Ianto smiled, another shadowed grin. "You told him to treat me better?"

Bond thought he might be blushing, but dismissed this as ridiculous. "Well, I-"

"All done," Harkness said, waving a bottle of brown liquid towards them. Ianto rolled his eyes. "Tosh says she's on her way."

"She's going to be seen, you know," Ianto said, leaning closer to Bond as he relaxed.

"Ah, let her. Who's going to believe a word of it?"

Bond ignored their riddles and concentrated on making Ianto comfortable. Suddenly, Harkness was at his elbow, contemplating them both and starting to smile. Bond felt inexplicably unnerved by the look, moreso when Ianto laughed.

"You're plotting."

"You need to rest," Harkness said firmly, but the twinkle remained in his eye. "Perhaps we should help you sleep."

And then Harkness was sitting on the bed, watching them both, his hand trailing over Ianto's calf, knee, thigh, groin…

Ianto moaned softly, but it was Bond's hand he found with searching fingers, and Bond's chest he leaned against, his eyes he met and his neck upon which he placed a simple kiss.

Harkness tugged at Ianto's fly and Bond pulled the man closer, placing his own kisses on Ianto's cheeks, his forehead, his lips. A farewell then, to this strange liaison, this moment of madness – a farewell befitting what had gone before.

Bond wondered if Harkness was as clever as Ianto, but the man set a different mood, gently stroking his lover until Ianto was writhing in Bond's arms. He, for his part, slipped his hands under the hem of Ianto's shirt, skimming his sides with rough fingers, forcing another moan from Ianto's lips.

"Jack…James…"

He watched Harkness carefully, saw how each movement was deliberate, and how well he knew his man, how keenly Ianto responded. Strangely, he felt jealous – a hot feeling of envy he couldn't quite define. Perhaps he had met his match in the art of seduction.

But still Ianto turned to him, pressing his lips firmly against Bond's and kissing him until they were breathless, laughing, and then Ianto was coming hard into Harkness' hand.

Ianto fell asleep almost instantly, and they settled him into the bed with care, both silently taking their posts in opposite chairs, watching. After all, Bond told himself, Ianto was a valuable asset to Her Majesty's Service. It wouldn't do to lose him.

No, it just wouldn't do.

~

It was late morning when they declared their intention to return to Cardiff. It was too soon and not soon enough; he'd watched them throughout the morning, rediscovering something deeper than the casual affection he had presumed. By the end, he realised his time in this shadow had passed and he gave way gracefully. After all, his was only a mission.

"I'll walk you to your car," he said, and took Ianto's arm on the other side as Harkness directed the porter to take the case. They made the journey in silence and as they arrived at an outlandishly obvious SUV (with their logo on it, for Heaven's sake!), the porter left them to their goodbyes.

In the end, it was a formal affair. Harkness shook his hand and told him to visit, accompanied by a look that told him that Cardiff was firmly off limits. Ianto touched his hand and smiled, no words spoken between them, and Bond wondered what message was imprinted on his skin, if the tattoo of that caress would ever fade.

He watched them drive away, struggling to process all that had happened and he drew a blank. All he had was a ruined suit to return and the impression that something inside him had shifted. He was a secret agent with a dirty assignment, now complete, and then he was just a man who liked women and that was who he was.

He liked women, and the memory of one man whom he would probably never lay eyes on again. Therefore, he packed his case and returned to M, armed with his information and the knowledge that he would never again undertake such an assignment.

He'd learned enough about himself for one lifetime.


End file.
